Corsair Cove Page 3

  Was this his purgatory? That fateful place the spirit was said to linger in wait for judgment? It wasn’t what he’d expected. But then, who knew what the afterlife held? It wasn’t as though someone had written a book on the subject or anything.

  He was dead. He had to be. What other explanation was there? And the sexy wench had told him Keats was dead. How? What had claimed the life of his former first mate? Had the threatening storm grew more violent? The thought of his betrayer caused Jacque’s internal thermostat to skyrocket. Damn the blackguard!

  His last memory was one of horror; he could still feel himself plunging into the icy sea. He couldn’t remember anything beyond the frigid wrath that had numbed him into oblivion.

  Yet, his rescue angel had said he wasn’t dead. She said he was in Florida. Florida? Could it be true? How was it possible he’d survived the fall into the murky depths of the ocean floor? Was this the inside of Davy’s locker?

  Rage climbed high in his chest, vengeance hitched a ride on its tail. Wherever he was, it sure as hell wasn’t home. Best make haste and get back before King Louis got wind of his mishap and made good on his heartless threat.

  His sodden boots trudged forward in the direction the Keats wench had sent him. Was he too late? Was his family still alive?

  Damn the bloody lot of greedy seadogs!

  The conniving crew of the Sainte-Anne had turned on him. All because of that miserable, double-crossing Keats. Per the order of his first mutinous mate, his own men had forced him atop the death plank. His blood ran cold with the memory of their throaty laughs as he toppled into fatal frigid waters.

  In light of that fact, how could he possibly be in Florida? And alive? Had the water somehow preserved him? If so, how did it explain the luscious Esa Keats, the sultry daughter of his nemesis?

  Jacque cringed. Keats had never mentioned any children. Where there others? A wicked grin crept onto his face. If so, they would all pay for their father’s treachery. He’d hunt them down, squash every last breathing link of Keats’ existence, just as King Louis had promised to do if Jacque should betray him and not return with his treasure.

  And he’d start with that delectable piece of woman-flesh that called herself Esa Keats. How could that ugly, cold-hearted bastard have sired a fiery siren such as her? Savage lust filled his loins, erupting in a low moan deep in his throat. Indeed, he would enjoy vindicating himself via that honeyed vessel, over and over again.

  A red flag had shot up in his head when the palatable wench had withdrawn from his kiss. No wench had ever done such a peculiar thing before. If he were in some sort of afterlife, perhaps it was to be his punishment for the selfish life he’d led, to be tormented by the most irresistible wench ever to lay his cursed eyes upon.

  And he deserved no less, given what he’d permitted his last carnal union to get him into.

  Jacque stared after the spot where the wench had disappeared; recalling his last romp had cost him his ship, his crew and, quite possibly, his life. Even that didn’t quash his yearning for her. Damn fool.

  Her hair was soft as the finest silk. His mind sketched the raven colored curl that had escaped the others to bounce freely across her forehead in her agitation. He chuckled at the memory. His tongue slowly traced his lips as he relived the savory kiss.

  Aye, she’d enjoyed their duel of tongues as much as he. Her sweet essence lingered in his mouth. Warm sugared pears. Jacque inhaled the scent of coconut mingled with the sea lingering on his shirt and a bulge tented his damp britches.

  His hands itched for a brush and a blank canvas. As there was none available at the present time; he closed his eyes and began to draw her on a more permanent canvas.

  Her skin was soft as satin and rounded in all the right places. Her eyes reminded him of the midnight sky in the peek of summer…of moonlight and stars dancing merrily before a dark stage. The vision almost made him want to believe in that mythical thing called romance. Almost.

  After he reclaimed his ship, he’d come back to sample more than just the sweetness of the wench’s tempting lips.

  In fact, he would make it his personal mission to see to it that Esa Keats enjoyed far more than his kiss before he faced the unmanageable king!

  Two

  Esa purposely left her cell phone behind when she’d gone out this morning. She needed to think, needed to come to terms with her father’s wishes without any distractions. Her heart weighed heavy as she reflected on just how abruptly her life had been turned upside down by the man she’d trusted more than anyone, the man she loved and respected, the man that had became the center of her world after her mother died.

  Things would never be the same. Not only was she to suffer such a tremendous loss, but she was forced to grieve the loss of her dream.

  No sooner had she plopped onto the bed in her hotel room than her cell phone began to ring. Her heart gave a soft thud as she gazed at the name on the small screen. Sid. He was either calling to apologize, or scold her some more for not fighting for the family business. Good grief, she prayed it wasn’t the latter. She didn’t want to argue with him again. With a sigh, she hit the send button. “Hello Si—”

  “Hello darling,” Sid started in a sorrowful tone. “I’ve missed you. When are you coming home? Listen, I’m sorry for giving you such a hard time about the will. Let me make it up to you, eh? Have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Sid, I’m—”

  “Come on, Esa. You could use a bit of cheering up and I know just the place.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Pleeese?” He turned on his most persuasive voice.

  She’d never been able to resist it. Damn him, he wasn’t playing fair.

  “I can take the express and be there by sevenish?”

  She released a reluctant sigh. “Oh, all right.” She was a pushover, saying yes when she should have said no. And he knew it. Like a puppeteer, he always knew how to pull her strings.

  She desperately needed to have this time alone. But he was right about one thing: they needed to talk. “I’m staying at—”

  “I know. The Seaside Hotel. I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven.” He didn’t leave her time to say another word. “Goodbye darling.”

  She didn’t want to be cheered up. She flung the phone at the pillow and dropped flat on her back amidst the bed. So many things went through her mind. Things she didn’t want to think about, but knew she must.

  The unique scent of the obnoxious pirate fused with the suntan oil she’d drenched herself in this morning and wafted up to taunt her nostrils. Spicy-sweet and masculine: a lethal combination. She inhaled deeply, reeling in the essence of the mystical man and struck with the notion the invigorating aroma would haunt her for the rest of her days.

  Her eyelids grew heavy and she didn’t fight it. A short nap would do her good. Her belly warmed as she succumbed to the dark bliss of slumber. Visions of an amusing, devilishly handsome and spirited wannabe corsair invaded her mind, pushing everything else back into their foreboding black holes.

  ~ * ~

  Jacque wandered down the beach, whirling in astonishment at the sights and people he encountered along his way. Running around half-naked appeared to be the current fashion. Seeing so many unclad women strutting about, he didn’t think he’d have any problem at all getting used to some of the changes. The sun was hot on his back and he felt overdressed, but resisted the nagging urge to strip off his clothing.

  Eyes doe-wide with curiosity, he gawked at the little boxes some natives held pressed to their ears while talking. Were they addled? There was no one within thirty paces of some of them, yet their mouths still chattered, lashing at the air itself.

  As he drew closer to the harbor, he ran into more and more commoners. Most of them fully clothed in a fashion he was more accustomed to which put his apprehensions at ease. He exchanged pleasantries with some of the passersby, but there was no time to dally. He had to retrieve his ship and complete his mission.

  His heart
grew heavy at thoughts of his family. He didn’t care what Keats said, his father would never have revealed their secret to the filthy thieves. If James LaFleur were so foolish, King Louis would see him hung for treason within a matter of weeks. That is, if he were lucky enough to survive the heartless crew of the Sainte-Anne.

  Guilt came over him like a deadly plague. It was his fault. If he’d only been paying attention, instead of allowing himself to be monopolized by that wanton wench—the wench hand selected by Keats before setting sail on their course to Guadeloupe—none of this would be happening. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He puffed a frustrated breath into the air. Whatever this happening might be.

  His family would be free once he returned the king’s treasure to its rightful owner. It was written in their agreement, a full pardon for his father’s debt. Not surprisingly, Jacque’s name was omitted from the pardon. Even though he was given a verbal promise of immunity for his confessed act of treason, there was no mistaking the gleam of vengeance in Louis’s eye, the muted trickery. King Louis would have his revenge.

  And Jacque had almost gratefully accepted his drab fate. It wasn’t like he had anything to live for. His only request was that his remains be scattered at sea, for that’s where his heart longed to be.

  Unfortunately, Emmanuelle Keats and his devious band of cutthroats had altered Jacque’s plans. How had his scheming first-mate managed to sway his men, his so-called friends, into joining a mutiny? The fact that his own comrades had baited the trap that finally snared him gnawed at his innards.

  It was the hunger for gold, the thirst for riches, and lest he forget, savage lust that broke a man down to the bare gluttonous bones. Bloody pirates to the core!

  The notion of stealing away with the generous prize had crossed his own mind, but only once before he stomped the vile thought far from his head. He’d given up the dishonorable life of pirating years ago to become an honest man. He was a privateer. He should have known better than to think Keats and the others changed as well.

  There it was. Jacque gasped and stopped dead in his tracks, spewing every foul word he could think of and in every language he’d learned in his travels. Beyond the horde of commoners and just past the willowy palms, a large schooner sat anchored in the harbor just as Keats’ enchanting daughter had promised.

  There was just one problem. It wasn’t his ship.

  This vessel, unlike the seasoned comfort of the Sainte-Anne, was polished to a brilliant shine, and looked quite new. Why, this pillowy ship looked as if it had yet to make its maiden voyage!

  Damn the brazen wench. She’d probably sent him off on some wild goose chase in order to warn her father. Well, she’d pay for her trickery. A low, animalistic growl escaped his lips. If it took the remainder of his days, he’d see to it that the saucy strumpet paid her just dues for her malice.

  He dropped his head and grunted, disgusted with himself. Would he never learn? He should have kept the Keats woman close, made her accompany him to the cursed vessel instead of taking her word and sending her off to alert the mutinous mob. Once again he’d been blinded by lust.

  A strange contraption interrupted his silent bereavement. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. What in the name of all saints were the strange rafts floating in the harbor? He flinched, his hands darting upward to cover his ears as a spine curdling noise pierced the air. A startled scream might have escaped him had shock not stifled his airway. His head felt so light it could have been filled with cotton as he turned and saw the terrifying source of the offensive sound.

  To his horror, the beast had four wheels and a somewhat squared metal body. No horses pulled it, yet the odd red box with large rubbery wheels moved just the same. People crowded inside the hideous creature when it came to a screeching halt. Jacque gaped open-mouthed, spellbound by the hair-raising experience. His body gave a hard jolt as the noise came again before the contraption sped away. He stared after it for some time, concluding it must be some erratic form of a carriage.

  Reality slapped him like the lash of a whip. For the first time in his life, he knew what it was like to be afraid. He must be dead. By all rational thought and reason, he should be.

  Was this the other side of life? What one found when they crossed over?

  Florida, the troublesome wench had said. Except for the sand, the sea, the blazing sun, this wasn’t anything like the Florida he knew. What had it been—a month?—since he’d last been here with his crew?

  The people! There was something different about them, besides the outlandish dress code. They talked funny. English was a second language to Jacque. But this was English translated in a way he was unaccustomed to. It was like being in a dream, a fantastical, phenomenal dream.

  Even the wenches were different. Beautiful yes, desirable, there was no denying it, but very different from the ones he’d seen. And he’d seen many. And made love to damn near all of them, leaving satisfied grins in every port across the globe. Fat ones, skinny ones, it didn’t matter. Whether it was a soft smile, the delicate sway of a hip, a plump bosom or a kind word, all women possessed some irresistible feature. Yet, in all his travels, he’d never glimpsed so many colors, textures or styles of hair. Were he still a gambling man, he’d wager to win which ones dabbled in the dark arts, for their magical tresses defied gravity as each stiff strand reached toward the stars.

  The men! The carefree swashbucklers were obviously celebrating a successful raid, and from a fine merchant ship by the looks of it. Brew in hand they swarmed the pretty ladies as though it was the most important thing in the world. Fools. On second thought, perhaps this place wasn’t that different.

  Still, something told Jacque he could look forever and still not find his ship in this dreamlike setting.

  “Ahoy there matey!” a pudgy man in a black and white striped shirt and cut off dark trousers bellowed joyfully as he waddled by.

  “Ahoy.” Jacque offered an amicable bow and the funny little man reciprocated the gesture. “Tell me, er, in what port might we be?” he asked, his attention briefly drawn to an attractive painted woman as she strutted by. It wasn’t so much the woman herself that he noticed, but the strange black thing that striped her artful face. How in the world did the wench manage to walk a straight line with the plastic blindfold?

  The jolly man chuckled in delight. “Not to worry, matey! By the way ye be dressed, ye’ve found the right port.”

  Jacque looked down at himself. The way ye be dressed? Brows furrowed, he tried again. “Avast, ye misunderstand mate. Are we in the port of Florida?”

  The man gaped at him as though he suddenly went daft. The motion caused Jacque’s blood to simmer and his hands to ball at either side.

  “Aye mate,” the round fellow added with concern. “That we are. Had ye share of the rum, have ye, son? Too much of the stuff will eat away at ye innards.” He smiled and patted Jacque’s shoulder before trotting off.

  “Hold,” Jacque started, but the man kept walking. Rum? How dare the puffer fish insinuate… He rubbed the back of his neck in attempt to ease the mounting tension. “But I could do with a spot of rum.” A spot of rum to warm his belly and a fiery wench to heat his bed and his ship.

  If he could muster those three things, life would be looking up. Then he could set his mind to more pertinent matters like finding his father, Emmanuel Keats, and his cunning daughter.

  “Pardon me, mate.” He flashed the fraudulent smile, always at the ready, and flagged a young couple as they passed by. “Where are we?”

  The peculiar pair had the audacity to laugh in his face. Rage fueled Jacque’s tank, and just when he would have beaten some sense into the unruly landlubber, the man raised his cup and beamed. “We’re in the bloody Caribbean matey. Enjoy!” Still laughing, the couple continued arm in

  arm on their merry way.

  The Caribbean? The Caribbean? These people were addled beyond belief.

  Jacque threw perplexed hands in the air and trudged down
the hilly slope to look out over the harbor and contemplate his next move. The stench of fish, salt and cheap perfume invaded his nostrils as he drew closer to the odd contraptions floating in the sea. His eyes beheld visions he’d never thought possible. His hand ached for his oils and a blank canvas once again.

  Unusual vessels of all shapes, colors and sizes filled the port. Breathtaking for one that loved the sea as much as he. The Sainte-Anne wasn’t amongst them; she’d stand out like a dirty black weed amongst these exotic ships. His heart grew heavy.

  With a weary sigh, he closed his eyes and thought of his mother. If only he had her governing hand to guide him now. Was she here? If he were dead, it might well be possible that he would see her again. Pshh, what was he thinking? His mother was an angel; one of God’s most favored. She wouldn’t be here, amidst this mind-boggling chaos.

  Help me find my way.

  He needed a plan. He never did anything without first molding a meticulous plan. First and foremost, he must find out where he was.

  Soft feminine giggles accompanied that irritating floral scent that came from behind him and Jacque spun to find two comely wenches admiring his backside. Adorned in sultry pirate attire straight out of some fantasy, their generous breast nearly spilled over top of the low-cut gowns. Two pairs of eyelashes batted demurely when he flashed the pantaloon-dropping smile, also habitually kept at the ready.

  Hmm. Perhaps a bit of distraction was what he needed to regain his jumbled wits. “Ahoy, me buxom beauties!” His upper half tipped slightly forward and before he raised his head again, the lovely ladies had applied themselves to either side of him.

  Chuckling, he nodded toward the red plastic cup the pretty blonde held in her bejeweled hand. “What have ye there, lass?” A pang of sadness filled his bosom as her rings brought to mind his old pal Dingo. Dingo liked shiny baubles. He only hoped his companion fared well in his absence aboard the Sainte-Anne.